Ciborium

Alma, the trace of chocolate
on fingers imperfectly sucked:
heart, dear impossible heart,
the wild widening sky
of this gate-month, flying
from bone-standards bending
in the wind of your passage --
Sarah, sore with the rasp
of esposas --
Hart, dear impossible Hart,
this year will bring
fruit from forgotten trees
planted in happier times:
a banquet long preparing
only waited the cry of "uncle!" --
The white flag
will become an altar cloth.
What will be celebrated is not ours to know,
but the ciborium will be inlaid
with sweetnesses you dreamed before the grief.